I pull my scarf over my face and mouth as the crowd pass,
a young teenager mocks,
and coughs loudly, laughing.
I don’t blame her,
we all look alien,
hiding in daylight.
I want to tell her I was once young,
and believed the old to be a parody of life,
so trapped within and without.
I want to tell her that we’re not afraid to die,
just we have grown fond of light,
of days of sun stroked skin,
of nights of star filled skies,
of being in this enchanted place.
We see the world through filters,
layers we reluctantly peel off,
and rarely show ourselves
truly to another.
Grief strips us bare,
loss denudes us,
we are unmade by sorrow
and in those moments,
of shattering clarity,
we can be known.
I want to tell her to breathe deep,
to inhale the world,
to fill her lungs with lust, with love,
with longing, and adore
this flawed and ultimately fatal place.
I want to tell her that I mask my face because I do.
But she is gone,
and I am silent.